Weeks like these will happen to you (2)

I promised some more updates on what this week was like for me, and it's nearly over now, so it's probably about time I did that. From my vantage point here at the arse-end of Saturday morning, it doesn't actually seem like I did a lot this week, but the major achievement, the thing that really came to a head, was that I finally finished editing and sorting out the manuscript for what will now be the second collection.

The impetus for this was the Grievous Prize, which my fellow poet Sarah Coles informed me about on Facebook after I ranted, recently, about my annoyance when looking at the web pages of publishers who claim to be producing 'edgy, contemporary, risk-taking etc' stuff but whose lists are endless parades of photogenic cis caucasian Oxford graduates. That was not a night I'm proud of: not because I said things I shouldn't, though I probably haven't done myself any favours in some parts of the poetry community by calling some publishing houses on their BS, but more because my emotional reaction to this overwhelming onslaught of the Stepford Bards was to metaphorically curl up in the corner and whimper. To be fair, it was an onslaught: every tastefully shot picture of a fruity post-graduate cis girl, or neatly-coiffed young man looking deep in rimless spectacles, every sentence containing the phrase 'read literature at Oxford and went on to study creative writing at UEA', every little logroll-quote from another similarly clubbable poet, and, most of all, every bland, vacuous, and completely unengaging poem to which all these things were appended, was like a punch in the gut.

So yeah, it's fair to say I threw myself a little pity party. Thanks to everyone who chipped in with their thoughts and replies, esecially the many, many poets and writers whose work I admire who've talked about the same thing. And a very big thank you to Sarah, for posting the link to the prize, which gave me something to shoot for. Even if the manuscript turns out not to be what they're looking for, working towards this competition, and its deadline, gave me the impetus to pull together the poems I've been working on lately, along with a bunch of older work on the same themes, into what I think is the strongest selection of work I've done yet. Flicking through it, it becomes clear why I had to cancel All Haste is from the Devil: if I hadn't done that, if I hadn't forced myself to write more honestly, to throw out all the posturing and the parody of myself that I'd become, if I hadn't came to the conclusion that I had to write about what I feel instead of what I thought people would accept, I'd never have written this.

And I'm not saying this is a better collection, I'm not saying it'll blow people away, just that it had to be written. Sometimes, the writing dictates what you do, and you only realise it's dictating after the fact. It's only when the poem's been written that you realise you had to do certain things so you could write it. And that's the feeling I have now, as I look at this collection.

The Grievous Prize manuscripts are submitted anonymously, so I'm afraid I can't tell you the title until I know if they want to publish it. I'm hoping they will, because there aren't enough poetry publishers doing stuff that genuinely takes risks, and it would be nice to be associated with some who are. But even if it turns out not to be what they're looking for, and whether I have to edit it or not, I now have the shape of the collection. Hopefully, in whatever form it finally gets published, you'll get to read it and see for yourself why it had to turn out this way.

Well, if the Royal Mail and the Book Depository come through, tomorrow your humble scribe will be voraciously reading this. It's a book that came up during a random googling of 'transgressive fiction' on the laptop and which piqued my interest. Not because I'm a dirty stinking pervert - I'm assuming, at this point, that we're taking that as read - but because it's an exploration of the psychological drives which lead someone, particularly a male someone, to be attracted to masochistic sexual behaviour. It's a topic I think is relevant to the transgressive poetry project, and one which crops up a lot in my own poetry - how can you remain a quote-unquote real man while labouring under a libido which constantly orients you towards girls who could kick the living crap out of you? Can you, indeed, remain a homo verus in such circumstances, or do you have to redefine your self-concept as something other? And, in that case - what is it?

Nothing's to say it won't be a shit book, of course, and if it is, I'll excoriate like the guys wielding the apple corer in the final scenes of Exquisite Corpse. But here's a line from an extract I found at nerve.com which suggests it might not be: 'I sleep on the inside of the spoon. She's my abusive boyfriend and I feel safe, her arms wrapped around me.'

Hmm. The sadomasochistic relationship as willingly-entered, if gender-reversed, wife-beater and wife dialectic? A huge amount to unpack there (and not all of it good) in terms of gender, power relations, and sexual assumptions. A fine piece of literary meat in which to sink one's teeth; a meal I look forward to. If you'd like to recommend some future deviant dishes, please do: remember though that unless I've already read a book or have been lent it, I do have to pay for the books I review here myself. But do make recommendations. The more we understand of the scope of transgressive poetry, the more room we have to maneuver. And the more room we have in which to move, the greater the damage that we can inflict.

Just what is it that you want to do?

Transgressive Poetry. That's what I'm calling it.

I was sitting at Victoria Coach Station, waiting for the 9:30 back from London and slipping in and out of normal waking consciousness, when it suddenly occurred to me that most of the poetry I like has a number of features in common. Most of the poetry I like reminds me of what in the 90s we began calling Transgressive Fiction. I like poetry which deals with outsiders, with lives lived on the edge of the law, at the borders of consciousness, at the dark end of the street. Poetry which deals with sex, and violence, and the ways they shade into each other: the ways in which we can sexualise the violence to which we are subject; the subtle violence of discourses which seek to normalise some forms of sexuality and gender while othering those which do not fit with simple binaries (man/woman, straight/gay, normal/kinky etc). Poetry which deals with drugs, and the myriad ways in which we alter our consciousness (and the ways in which, again, the subtle violence of the mainstream tries to alter it for us). Poetry which deals with the experiences of those groups forced to be outsiders, for whatever reason. Poetry which, in the words of my colleague Angela Readman , 'isn't safe and cosy, poetry that asks why and won't take it lying down - poetry that isn't polite.'

Transgressive Poetry. That's what I'm calling it, and that's what I'm using this blog to promote. I'll be posting poems, from myself and others, which I think fit with my idea of what transgressive poetry is, or could be; I'll be providing links to other transgressive writers and artists who I feel should be brought to your attention (such as today's find, Nicole Blackman) and I'll be updating you on my progress towards my eventual goal of organising a poetry and performance night in Newcastle, and some kind of regular publication available anywhere, dedicated to showcasing the best transgressive writers, artists and performers out there.

It's going to be a long road, and a weird one, and I don't have all the skills I'll need to bring it all off perfectly yet. But who ever does? It's a Fool's Leap: the only kind worth making. A month or so ago I had no idea how to write a press release, deal with media, set up a mike and amp or fundraise for a charity before. My London adventure led me to skill up in all those areas. Setting out on this journey will make me better in a hundred other ways. But more importantly it'll open up more space for freaks like us to express what we are without fear. That's why I do what I do now, and I do it with the tool I have, and the tool I have is poetry. A few weeks ago, when interviewed by the local press, I squirmed and struggled when I was asked to define what type of poetry it is that I write. But now I have an answer.

I think you know what that answer is by now, so I'll spare the empty knell of repetition.